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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28760184">a brief discussion (into the human condition)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankIin/pseuds/FrankIin'>FrankIin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Call the Midwife</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:29:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,564</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28760184</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankIin/pseuds/FrankIin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>a return trip from the gateways leads to a rather interesting conversation</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Delia Busby/Patsy Mount</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a brief discussion (into the human condition)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Your friends are allowed to know you Pats.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dark descends on London as the bus trundles unceremoniously through the late night traffic of Central. The upstairs is desolate, save for her and perched at the very front. So Patsy can see anyone coming up the stairs, and so Delia can see the evening lights of London without obstruction. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Patsy softens at Delia’s flustered appearance. Cheeks rosy, fringe sticking to her forehead. Not exactly as polished as when they’d left Nonnatus, but their excuse </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> been dancing classes in Soho. More questions would have been asked if they did return in perfect shape as Patsy endeavoured to be every time they ventured out to Chelsea.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The club had been warm, humid, and unrelenting as it always was. Exactly how a club should be. Only with other clientele that favoured them. They’d settled into a passably believable routine of embarking to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gateways</span>
  </em>
  <span> at least twice a month. Delia had become a favourite with the bartenders and her relentless desire to try every cocktail ever invented. Patsy, herself, had struck up a rather nice kinship with the...</span>
  <em>
    <span>so-called butch</span>
  </em>
  <span> that manned the door on Tuesdays; she’d even gone so far as to finally gift Patsy the pocket knife she’d promised. Some wise crack reference to her Akela status, always being prepared and that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Patsy clutches that very same knife right as Delia dares to have a serious conversation </span>
  <em>
    <span>on the bus</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Her hand, still warm and clammy from the club, welcomes the chill of the cool metal casing against her palm. It calms her, you see, against the spike of heat from where Delia rests her hand on her thigh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And where Delia decides to bring </span>
  <em>
    <span>this up</span>
  </em>
  <span> on a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bloody bus</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We didn’t all have a fisherman’s queer son as our best friend growing up, Delia,” Patsy replies, terse. She presses her back harder against the window. The glass isn’t cool enough to penetrate her wool coat. Patsy despises it suddenly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Delia sighs, fingers squeezing more heat against Patsy’s thigh, “I can’t be the only person who knows you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” Patsy pushes a smile onto her lips, painfully meets Delia’s eyes. “I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But you could be </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Delia’s response is almost prepared. “Look, you said yourself that Trixie has no problem with us queers—don’t flinch your nose at that, sweetheart, you are one.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Patsy ducks her head, pulls her hand from her pocket to pick invisible lint from her lap. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It means </span>
  <em>
    <span>strange</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Deels.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Delia moves the hand from her thigh to stop her picking, replies in earnest, “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> strange. You’re a five foot nine redhead and you’ve the pallor of a Victorian ghost. And your feet are </span>
  <em>
    <span>huge</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Patsy, momentarily taking pause, glances down at her feet before flicking her eyes back up to Delia, “...Thank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But I love you all of that about you,” Delia says with no hesitation at all, causing Patsy’s chest to quiver in that way it always does when Delia is just so...</span>
  <em>
    <span>easy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  “I love you for being </span>
  <em>
    <span>strange</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> strange Pats. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m your</span>
  </em>
  <span> strange Delia.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Patsy softens. The straightness in her spine dwindles, she feels herself melting into Delia’s space. Their arms press tight against each other. Patsy turns their hands over, taking charge, so she can run her index finger over Delia’s palm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She taps three times.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think that I’d just prefer to be referred to as something else,” Patsy whispers, staring down at her ministrations.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Delia, per the knock, lets her in with that bright smile. “Then we’ll go with </span>
  <em>
    <span>gay</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as oxymoronic that is with you. Whatever makes you comfortable, Patsy.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then she’s moving, bringing Patsy’s hand to her lips in a flagrant kiss that sends Patsy reeling. But there’s no one around. It’s just them. And the driver who bleats something about being near to Poplar. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Delia pulls away to stand far too quickly and Patsy, who had been on fire, feels the autumn chill hit her with an unwelcome smack.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Patsy wraps her hand around Delia’s wrist in a quick gesture, “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anyway, you said Trixie didn’t have a problem with us gays. Maybe it’s worth telling her. Or Barbara.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A woman with two vicars in her life</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Patsy muses with some humour as they climb down the stairs and out onto the pavement. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Certainly not Barbara,” Patsy shakes her head, waiting for Delia to loop her arm around her’s. They begin their walk back with the lethargy of people who don’t wish to return home so soon. “And besides, Trixie is fine with </span>
  <em>
    <span>male</span>
  </em>
  <span> homosexuals. I rather doubt she’d be at ease if she knew she was sharing a bedroom with a female one.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Pats, you can’t still be feeling—“ Delia begins.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I feel like a cad.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re not a...a predator Patsy,” Delia tries. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Patsy has been haunted by this since school, feeling dishonest is as intrinsic to her nature as being clean, or favouring spices in her food. So long as her fingers itch for chopsticks, Patsy will loathe herself for deceiving those she holds dear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know but it’s hardly proper, is it? Someone of my inclinations shouldn’t be sharing with a woman the same way that a man shouldn’t. I may not be...</span>
  <em>
    <span>interested</span>
  </em>
  <span> in Trixie but it’s still wrong of me to be—I don’t know. I feel guilty.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Delia, forever uncomplicated, responds, “So long as you keep your hands out of her knicker drawer, you have nothing to feel guilty about.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Delia I’m serious.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know. But it’s hardly as though you can request a room change with Sister Julienne, is it?” Delia retorts lightly, nudging Patsy’s foot with her own in a gentle beratement. “Besides, even if you could come up with reason enough for it, who would you share with? One of the nuns? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sister Monica Joan</span>
  </em>
  <span>? You need to embrace who you are, sweetheart, and stop feeling needlessly guilty about it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Patsy pulls to a stop. Glancing around, deciding the shadows are far too many, she leads Delia down a dark alley, the improper sort, before she says:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It wouldn’t just stop at losing our jobs, Delia, you understand that, don’t you? They may not imprison us but they can punish us. Did you not see in the Manchester Guardian that women like us are being subjected to ECT up and down the country?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It had horrified her when she’d read it the prior week. Yet, she’d been forced to maintain a coolness as she passed Sister Winifred the crossword. Trixie hadn’t passed comment as she snatched the newspaper away for the lonely hearts columns. (</span>
  <em>
    <span>To nose, Patsy, besides you’ll never know what one can find in black and white print.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Delia swallows hard, “I did. Yes. But that’s hardly—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s difficult not to feel guilty when that’s the consequence of our existence.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’re safe, Pats. It’s not worth worrying about,” Delia reaches for her hands but Patsy brings them into her chest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know what it’s like to be sleeping and have men break into your house and take you somewhere to torture you,” Patsy says. “I can’t have that happen again. So I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> feel guilty and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>worry and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>won’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> tell Trixie a damn </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> to keep you safe.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With that, she steps out of the alley, continuing down the cobbles as they approach Nonnatus. Delia tags behind her, silently, allowing her the moments to stew in her surge. When they step into the square, Delia tugs on her elbow, pulling her into the allotment instead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wordless, Patsy sits on the bench with an inch between them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Patsy have you ever even said it to yourself?” Delia asks quietly as she gazes up to the stars.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Patsy, now occupied with flicking the pocket knife open and closing it again, asks, “Said what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What you are.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Does that matter?” Patsy retorts quickly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She feels Delia watch her for a moment, that awe-ridden look about her face. Patsy runs the pad of her thumb over the knife edge. Gentle. Not enough to cut. The blade sparkles in the moonlight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course it matters,” Delia flinches as she observes the action. “If you can’t say the words to yourself, can you truly say you love me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Patsy closes the knife over. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Delia. You know I do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You need to accept yourself. And you need to be yourself. Keep us safe, sure, but you can’t live your whole life like some...” Delia trails off to cast a look up to the stars once more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Patsy arches an eyebrow, watching her neck, “Ghost?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Delia, Patsy sees how she tenses her jaw, “Not to rehash long gone arguments but yes. Tell yourself who you are, then you might feel more comfortable telling Trixie.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Delia—“ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can call you gay, Patsy, and you don’t flinch,” Delia says frankly. “We can go to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gateways</span>
  </em>
  <span> and you’ll hold my hand and kiss me in front of other women. You’ll wear slacks and berate men for, well, existing. You know you’re gay.” And then she asks, “Why can’t you say it yourself?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Patsy says, firm. “Please don’t ever doubt that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But I want you to love yourself,” Delia replies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Patsy has no response.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So they sit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Delia looks at the stars and Patsy turns the pocket knife over in her hands. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>lmk what u guys think!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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